


1.21 Jigowatts

by Imperfect_Sentence



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:37:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9368201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imperfect_Sentence/pseuds/Imperfect_Sentence
Summary: Angela realises today is just another day: another chance to fuck things up a little differently.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Been meaning to watch Mr Robot for a while now and low and behold, I'm already sucked in. This story takes place end of season 1 right after Angela and Darlene find Elliot at the cemetery. Tagged for dubious consent seeing as it's arguable whether Elliot is able to give informed consent given his mental state.
> 
> Rewrote the ending to this out of boredom. Enjoy!

_1.21 jigowatts - the amount of electricity needed to power the DeLorean time machine via the flux capacitor._

* * *

After they find Elliot talking to himself in the cemetery, it isn’t Darlene that takes him home: it’s Angela.

Elliot’s apartment reminds Angela of Elliot’s childhood bedroom. It’s too dark and messy – bits of hard drive and wire everywhere – and it smells stale as if it’s been too long since he last cracked a window. If his apartment is anything like his mind, maybe it _has_ been too long.

A little black dog bounds off the couch and races over to greet Angela, saving her from asking Elliot how he can live in such a shit hole. If this is the alternative, she thinks she understands why her father let himself get so far into debt. Reality is depressing, but the fantasy…

“You have a dog?” asks Angela and she immediately regrets it because its stupid questions like this that got her kicked out of the meeting with Terry Colby. She bends down and scoops up the dog, feeling its racing heart, the full body wag of its tail. It licks her cheek and it’s the first time in ages she’s felt unconditionally loved.

Elliot takes too long to reply as if she asked him a trick question. “Her name is Flipper,” he mumbles eventually. Another long pause. He shifts from foot to foot, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his black hoodie. “You can go now. I’ll be OK.”

Angela puts down Flipper and walks over to Elliot. His shoulders are bunched and she can practically see the cogs whirring inside his head, working on overdrive in desperation to make sense of everything. For a while now, she has felt two parts within him: the Elliot she grew up with and the _other_. But it’s the old Elliot who’s here with her now: the shy, awkward boy whom she used to play with in the backyard when they were kids. She is suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to touch him, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. But she knows he doesn’t like being touched. It won’t help.

She pushes down the thought that maybe she’s the one needing to be touched.

“I thought maybe we could have dinner together," she says too loudly. "Thai, on me.”

The thread comes free of the hoodie but he still won’t look at her. “You don’t have to.” 

“I want to.”

She really does.

*

They sit on the couch and watch _Back To The Future_ , eating the Thai out of plastic containers on their laps. Angela watches Elliot out of the corner of her eye and sees the images flickering over his too big eyes. For once, the tension has seeped from his body: his shoulders are visibly relaxed and once or twice he cracks a smile.

Until Marty’s mom tries to kiss Marty, that is.

It’s almost comical the way Elliot misses his mouth, a Pad Thai noodle dropping off his fork down the front of his hoodie. He quickly fishes it out and sets the container on the table. His hands are shaking. Angela can’t help noticing his nails are bitten to the quick. 

“Darlene told me you tried to kiss her,” says Angela conversationally because the subject has been broached whether they like it or not, and she’s curious what he has to say.

Elliot flinches as if she slapped him. His cheeks flush red and the colour extends all the way to his ears. “Yeah.” He grips his knees tightly.

“Why?” She’s sticking the knife in him and yet she can feel it twisting in her own chest. She tells herself she’s not jealous. But the image of Elliot and Darlene together plays behind her eyes, and she can’t help remembering all the times they left her out of things when they were kids, wrapped up in their own little world of computers and codes and secrets.

Elliot stares at his socks. “I didn’t remember her.” 

“That’s not why,” says Angela matter-of-factly.

“I was lonely. She said I was the best person she knew. She said she loved me.” Elliot’s voice breaks on the last sentence and Angela’s heart is bleeding. She's always been too soft.

“Hey…” She touches a hand to his cheek and gently turns his head to face her. He jumps at the contact but slowly relaxes into it and it kills her the way his eyes slide shut, the way his breathing quickens like a puppy that’s desperate for love but expects to be beaten. Maybe he doesn't hate being touched so much as he fears how much he wants it. How much he craves it. "You're not alone."

Angela had noticed Elliot was looking worse for wear at the cemetery but this close she can see the bruising on his face, the dark shadows rimming his eyes, the thin lines on his brow. His cheekbones are sharp under her fingers. He’s turning into a ghost and yet she can feel stubble under her thumb, moisture on his bottom lip. She wants to press her thumb into his mouth. Wants to feel the warmth there, the sharp edges of his teeth.

“Angela...” He says her name so quietly, as if to say it louder might break the spell. His green eyes are dark and bottomless and she realises he’s watching her face, desperately trying to read it, to make sense of it. He keeps looking at her lips and she realises what he wants, what he’s too afraid to ask for, and realises she wants it too.

He’s been so far away for so long and yet it’s so easy to close the distance between them. She presses her lips to his, soft and chaste, and he’s holding his breath, his whole body frozen. His lips are chapped but they’re soft. He’s so sweet and broken and fucked up. She wants to cry for him. For everything that’s happened since they each lost a parent and piece of themselves too.

She pulls away from him. Avoids his gaze. “I’m sorry.” 

Fuck, she shouldn’t have done that. Not in the state he’s in. But he’s not the only one who’s lonely. He’s not the only one confusing another’s mere presence for love. She thinks of Ollie and wonders if it’s not too late to fix things. Everyone makes mistakes. Maybe standing up for what’s right isn’t worth standing alone.

But then he kisses her again.

It catches her off guard. It’s slow at first but then it deepens and she can feel the longing there: hunger barely reigned in. He’s starving for affection, starving for her, and yet he’s afraid she’ll turn him away or worse, disappear in his arms.

“Tell me this is real,” he begs her, his mouth tasting of Pad Thai and stale smoke. “Tell me.” 

“It’s real.” She slaps her half-eaten container down on the table and climbs into his lap, taking his face in her hands. “It’s real, Elliot.” She breathes the words into his mouth: a mantra. “It’s real. It’s real. It’s real.”

She doesn’t care what _Back To The Future_ says: the future has been written and they never had a choice. She feels out of control but she never had control. Control is for the gods or at the very least the top 1%. Today is a just another day: another chance to fuck things up a little differently.

Elliot’s hard for her already. She can feel the hard ridge of him through his jeans, pressing into the back of her thigh through her skirt. She grinds against him and he hisses into her mouth, bucking up at her, and she can’t help thinking there is power in this: making a man submit to her, making him fall for her.

But Elliot, in so many ways, is just a boy. When she breaks the kiss, his mouth chases hers before realising she has pulled away. He looks at her wild-eyed, terrified she has changed her mind, that he has done something wrong. For a second, Angela wants to up and leave, to hurt him for all the times he inadvertently hurt her. Instead, she takes pleasure from the way he trembles beneath her, from the knowledge he wants so desperately to please her. He would rip his heart out for her if she asked.

“Bed,” she commands, and he’s powerless to resist. 

They stumble into the bedroom, mouths pressing together, hands roaming each others bodies. The bed is unmade. Tech magazines and drug paraphernalia litter the floor. Blushing, Elliot breaks the embrace and moves to tidy up but Angela pushes him onto his back on the mattress and crawls over him, kissing his mouth, his neck, anything she can reach. When she strips off his hoodie and shirt, it’s like stripping off skin. He’s so thin: she can see his clavicles, hipbones and ribs stark in shadows cast by the streetlights outside the window. But he is more human that she’s ever seen him and she can’t help pressing a kiss directly over his heart.

She wastes no time undoing his belt, unbuttoning his flies and slipping her hand inside. Elliot practically shoots off the bed and the first touch of her fingers to his cock and if she knew it were that easy to get a genuine reaction from him she might have done this sooner. She yanks off his pants, briefs and socks and takes him in a firm grip, her fingers wrapping tight around the shaft. He’s bigger than Ollie, longer and a little thicker too, and her belly floods with heat with the thought of him inside her.

She teases him at first, her tongue laving the head and dipping into the slit. He tastes of musk and salt like any other man she’s been with, but Elliot isn’t just anyone. She's known him for so long and yet lately she hardly knows him at all. And still, this feels inevitable, as if it were coded into their systems. He grabs hold of her blonde ponytail in one hand but doesn’t push her head down or force her to take him deeper. She indulges him anyway. The sound he makes is high and needy and the fingers of his free hand tighten in the sheets.

“God, Angela,” he moans. “You’re...”

_Too much. Not enough._

“It's OK,” she coos, slowing her strokes, her fingers pressing against the thick vein. "I got you. Stay with me." 

With one last swipe of her tongue, Angela slips off her skirt and underwear and crawls up his body. She straddles him and he groans at the feeling of her hot, wet flesh where he needs it most. She looks down at him: eyes scrunched, flushed from his cheeks to his chest, and she can feel him shaking with the effort of not thrusting into her, of not coming already. She is half-tempted to grind on him until he explodes hot and sticky on her thighs but she doesn’t think his ego could handle it and she needs this too.

She unbuttons her blouse and removes her bra, throwing them both across the room. “This OK?” She looks Elliot dead in the face when she asks because it occurs to her that there’s no going back after this. In the morning, he might forget but she never will. She’s made up her mind but has he made up his? “Need to hear you say it.”

Elliot cracks his eyes open and for the first time in ages he’s looking at her, really looking at her, and she feels like the only person in this whole fucked up world.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his hands cupping her breasts before smoothing down her waist to settle on her hips. 

Angela leans forward and kisses him, their teeth clacking, their tongues tangling together. She breaks the kiss and they’re both breathing heavily. His fingers tighten on her hips. She can feel his cock throbbing between her slick thighs.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispers in his ear, her hand reaching back to press the head of his cock just inside her, heat and slickness coating the tip.

“Please.” He’s almost mad with it now and she takes great pleasure in the way he writhes beneath her, tendons straining in his neck, sweat beading at his temples and between his clavicles. 

“Please, what?” She could get used to this.

“Please fuck me,” he pants. “Please. God, wanna be inside you.” 

_Please, please, please._

She sheathes him in one quick movement.

She has never been much for exhibitionism (especially after the Ollie blackmail fiasco) but she wishes she could film Elliot’s reaction: the strangled sound he makes, the way his head flops back on the pillow, his eyes rolling back, jaw clenching. He’s breathing deeply through his nose and he looks like he’s in pain. Of course he does, she thinks. Trust Elliot not to know pleasure even when it’s wrapped around his cock. 

She can tell it’s taking everything in him not to come on the spot and so she keeps perfectly still, waiting for him to adjust to the feel of her. His cock is perfect inside her; she can feel it pulsing, stretching her just right. After a long moment, his breathing calms and his fingers loosen their death grip on her hips. He tilts his head up to look at her. Only then does she start to move.

She rides him steadily, methodically, grabbing one of his hands and pressing the pad of his thumb against her clit, showing him how to move it tight little circles just right. Once he’s got the rhythm on his own, she leans forward and kisses him once more before moving her lips to the shell of his ear.

“Did you ever dream of this, Elliot?” she asks, breath hot in his ear.

His thumb stutters on her clit but recovers quickly. She hears him swallow thickly. “Yes.” 

She smiles against his cheek. Rewards him with a tight clench of her cunt. “Did you ever touch yourself to the thought of it?” 

His voice is a broken moan. “Yes.”

She rides him faster, her hands braced on his chest, her nails biting into his skin. He watches her with half-lidded eyes, mesmerised, and she can feel him thickening within her, his breathing intensifying until he's moaning with each breath. The sounds of their bodies slapping together combined with the sight of him teetering on the edge has her crackling with electricity. 

But she needs something more.

“So did I,” she confesses.

"Oh god, _fuck_."

He almost loses it. She doesn't know how he doesn't. She plants her knees in the mattress and stops moving and when she presses their foreheads together he's looking at her wild-eyed, almost delirious, and she feels that stab of power again, only more intense this time, and this is what she needs. She needs to break him. She needs to _own_ him.

She shushes him and strokes his hair, feeling the short, sweat-slick strands. "Shh Elliot, baby. Don't do it yet. Not yet."

He yanks his thumb from her clit and grips her hips hard enough to bruise. He tries to fuck into her, his cock inching a little deeper, and he's almost hyperventilating with need, with the animal instinct to throw her on her back, but she won't let him.

"Angela..." he gasps, eyes so dark she can only make out the thinnest ring of green.

"I used to imagine your cock, Elliot. I used to stick my fingers in my cunt and pretend it was you."

Tears prick his eyes. He tries to hide his face in the pillow but she holds him fast. 

"Oh my god. _F-fuck_. Fuck, Angela. Please... Please, you _have_ to move."

She can't remember him ever talking this much.

"Please, Angela... I can't-"

She begins riding him again. Slowly.

His eyes slip closed.

"Keep them open," she warns.

He does as she says and he writhes beneath her, whining in desperation. God, he's pretty like this - all flushed, sweaty and wrung out - and it's all for her. Her own hand snakes between her legs, fingers circling around her clit.

"Remember when we were kids and I used to sleep over? I did it in your bed once." She nips his earlobe. "You were fast asleep."

 _"Oh Jesus Christ!"_ He's sobbing.

"You're such a good boy, Elliot. So sweet." 

The electricity builds inside her. A storm cloud ready to burst.

"Angela..." he gasps. "I'm gonna come. I'm gonna-"

"What do sweet boys say?"

Tears are rolling down his cheeks. She licks at them with her tongue.

" _PLEASE_ _! Please, Angela! Oh god, oh fuck, pleasepleaseplease."_

She laughs.

"Me first."

She clenches hard around his cock. A bolt of lightning, a nuclear reaction, 1.21 jigowatts, and she’s coming: stars exploding behind her eyes, molten heat flooding her body and it goes on and on and he’s coming too, pulling her down hard against him, his hips bucking, his whole body jerking. He’s so loud in the tiny room that Angela can hear Flipper whining and scrabbling to jump onto the bed. Hell, he's probably woken the whole building, the whole neighbourhood, but she doesn't give a shit.

Aftershocks still rolling through her, Angela leans forward and kisses Elliot deeply, feeling his arms wrapping tight around her back as his hips eke out those last few thrusts. All too soon, she can feel him softening within her but she’s reluctant to release him because then whatever this is really is over. No revert to last save point. No take backs.  

“Holy shit...” Elliot's still panting against her neck, and Angela isn't sure whether his system has crashed or simply restarted.

"Yeah..." she replies, feeling much the same.

**Author's Note:**

> It's worth noting that while I'm not adverse to some filthy Elliot/Tyrell, I'm a little surprised at the distinct lack of Elliot/Angela and other pairings. Please write more! (Hell, more Elliot/Tyrell is also fine!)


End file.
